


Relics

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Community: talechallenge18, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:27:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In September, Sam is never quite comfortable…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relics

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Marigold's birthday in 2005.

It was a damp day, grey and soggy. For September, given that some September morns could be crisp and clear, and bring a body's heart into his mouth with the beauty of them, given those things, this wasn't at all a day to be mooning about, thinking. No, this was a day to be working. To be starting to clear the earth for autumn as it rolled in, to begin to put all tidy in preparation for winter. But it was also the sort of day, Sam thought, as he paused a little and mopped his brow, that crept up on you somehow, when you'd thought to forget all about it. The sort of day that poured cold drips down your neck as they fell from the trees. That breathed a heavy silence through the dull and chilly air.

But given that it was September, despite all this, despite the work and the discomfort of damp collars and such, despite this, Sam couldn't help but find himself thinking anyway. It being September and all. He had the sound of his family close in his ear, echoing through from Bag End, where he'd propped the kitchen door ajar with a stick. He had the children's laughter to ward him in happy remembrance, and to give him a contented sigh or two, composed as it was of hearthfire chat, and silly games. He had all this, and Rosie too, and yet, and yet… It was still September.

Sam wanted to remember Mr Frodo as all happy-like as well. He wanted to remember the good times, the many good times they had shared over the years, and mostly he did, for Mr Frodo was wound in and out of Sam's heart as tightly as clematis climbing a pole, and Sam's heart was mostly happy. But in September… Things could get mightily confused in September. The remembrance was harder, Sam thought, in such a season, with the leaves that were not quite changing, and not quite falling. But they were breathing to each other about that change, weren't they? They were settling down and getting ready to change. You'd have to be a far worse gardener than Sam not to notice them doing that.

Sam sometimes wondered if that was what made every September so hard. Not remembering Mr Frodo leaving as such, but the weeks that had led up to it. The weeks that had been whispering to Sam of goodbye, like nature did at the start of every autumn, but that he'd been too busy to do more than note in passing. The messages that Mr Frodo had been sending him in every wistful look, or gentle smile, messages just as plain as the sounds of the birds that had begun to chatter and collect on the ridgepole of the outhouse, but that he hadn't appreciated properly, like he should have done. Sam often wondered what he might have said to Mr Frodo in those last days, what he might have done to change his mind, and if, in the end, it would have made any difference at all. Probably not, thought Sam, with his plain old hobbit sense.

Didn't stop him regretting it though.

But this September, with the greyness of the horizon looking as dull as ditchwater, and this sullen nip in the air going straight to the twinges in a body's bones, well, this September was worse than most. And the ache that sat in Sam's heart, which he often thought to fill with children's laughter – babe after babe, a never-ending stream of life and cheer, just as Mr Frodo had told him he should – somehow the hole there was not for filling. Not right now, at any rate.

So it was the proper thing to do, Sam reckoned, as he straightened his back and stared at the very last tree stump in the whole of the Bag End gardens. It was the right thing to do, to pull up this last reminder of those days, wasn't it? In such a season, and with him feeling so full of holes himself, it was quite appropriate for Sam to finish up the healing of Bag End, to get rid of the last vestige of a time that Mr Frodo would have him forget, even while his heart was crying out to him to remember it. And that was something Sam thought Mr Frodo would approve of, even if it was a sort of backwards kind of reasoning, because Mr Frodo was nothing if not stubborn, as Sam knew – none better.

And Sam found at that point that his lips had shaped themselves into a smile without his even noticing, and thought Mr Frodo would likely approve of that too. So he shook his head, as Mr Frodo looked at him and smiled fondly, in his memory, and said 'Oh Sam…', before he went off to the Cotton's to borrow the dray horse. Because even in September, practicality came before dreaming, as any hobbit could tell you, when it came down to it. Even Mr Frodo.

***

Now if only it was so very easy to dig up the past as it was to dig up that old tree stump, thought Sam, as he surveyed the successful morning's work. The remains of the old chestnut that used to shade the lane lay misshapen and covered with earth in front of him, and Sam absently toed at a clod, as he remembered what it had looked like in its magnificence. It should have been standing there still, to Sam's way of thinking, if he'd had any choice in the matter. If he'd been here, instead of there.

But that was part of the point too, wasn't it, when it came down to it? People's choices were their own, and nothing that Sam thought, or didn't think, made a blind scrap of difference. He didn't regret the choice that led him to follow Mr Frodo, and if that meant that he wasn't here to defend the chestnut, or Bagshot Row, or his Gaffer, well, you makes your own bed and then you lies in it, Samwise. That's what his da would have said, and Sam knew that it was true. Even on a rotten miserable day in September, as he stood staring at the great spread of roots that were now unearthed and reaching to the sky like ominous winter branches.

He shook his head then and walked back towards the smial. The stump was out now, that was the main thing, and the horse was back with the Cotton's. Frodo-lad had taken it, and as happy as a grig he had looked perched on the back of the massive beast. But since Nibs had come with the animal, and took it back again too, Sam wasn't much worried about his son's assertions that he was now big enough to ride a horse. No, what made him shuffle his feet, and run the water from the pump for long enough to feel his ears go numb, was the knowing that it still didn't make no difference. It should, Sam thought, this last healing, this last vestige of the Troubles pulled out and ready for burning. Surely it should make a difference? But as he greeted Rosie with a kiss, and as he made his way in through the kitchen door ready for his lunch, Sam knew that it weren't as simple as that. Things never were, he supposed.

Septembers, Sam decided. You could keep 'em.

He tried to grin then, as his family folded around him like a particularly noisy and exuberant blanket, like a patchwork quilt all sewn out of crazy squares and mis-matching yarns. And surely that image should make him smile? Grumpiness didn't seem catching, at least, as the children chattered around him like cheerful starlings, and if Rosie sent an anxious glance or two his way, she knew him well enough by now to treat him gentle-like in this season of the year. And if Sam knew that he'd quite like a lovely blazing row, thank you very much, which would relieve his feelings nicely, then at least he was also fair enough to know that provoking it would make him feel worse in the end.

Couldn't he sit at his own table, with his own family, and still cry 'humbug' if he chose? It seemed not. What with listening to Pippin-lad's tales of blackberrying, and untying the knot in Rosie-lass' hair ribbon, it seemed his own mopes and moans would have to wait. Which was right and proper, Sam supposed, but didn't make him feel better neither. So it was with a tinge of guilty relief that Sam found himself back outside, with an exhortation ringing in his ears to find that Hammy and bring him to table, since he couldn't seem to hear his Mam calling him. And to give him a piece of his mind, if it turned out he could hear Rosie very well.

Not happy anywhere, Sam decided, as he walked back out into the dull grey afternoon. Like he'd an itch under his skin that couldn't be scratched. Like he'd a splinter under his nail, and not a pair of tweezers in sight. Like… He sighed a little and then went to look for Hammy, who for a faunt was fast on his little legs, but could usually be found in the garden somewhere. Sam wished he could find himself as easily.

***

Sam sneezed, his nose filled with the damp air, and his shirt dusted with yellow pollen. He would need to stick his head under the pump again, at this rate. Wait 'til Sam found that lad! But, so far, Hammy wasn't in any of the usual places. He wasn't hidden in among the beds of tall and stately iris, and he wasn't getting filthy mucking about in the compost heap. Sam had just finished crawling through the hollyhocks with no luck when he bethought himself of another place, somewhere that might be irresistible to a tiny lad who just loved to dig in the dirt.

And despite his own mood, Sam found his heart squeezing just a little. For the hole they had left was quite deep really, and Hammy was such a little lad. It was something he should have thought of. Would have thought of, if he hadn't been such a misery-guts today. At least it hadn't rained since early that morning, that was something. And the child could climb like squirrel.

He walked over to the hole with careful measured steps. Shouldn't panic lest there's need, and the lad would be scared and maybe fall, iffen his da showed up hollering and carrying on. So Sam walked calmly up the edge of the hole where the stump had lain for year upon year and stared in with barely a gasp to indicate that anything might be amiss.

Hammy was all right. That was the first thing that Sam noticed. Enjoying himself mightily if the amount of dirt his clothes had managed to accumulate were anything to go by. Playing mud pies, so it looked like, or was it mud forts? Sticks were stuck upright in the ground as flags, or were they meant to be armies of brave soldiers, or hordes of ravening orcs? With a lad as young as Hammy it was always so hard to tell.

Sam felt his heart resume beating, as he looked down into the torn earth. There was his lad, his youngest lad, all hale and hearty, and playing with… tree roots? Hammy looked up then, and laughed, as he beat a loud tattoo on the ground, his little hands grimy, but his face so cheerful. He beat the ground and the stick he used shone suddenly yellow, as it clinked against its neighbour, a dull hollow sound, like china banging on a dresser. What a strange noise for two sticks to make.

And then Sam jumped down into the hole he had made, into that wound he himself had torn out of the ground, and snatched his lad up. Snatched him up so hard Hammy began to wail at the surprise of it, and kicked out his legs. Sam stepped back a little then, and tried to soothe him, but he could feel his hands were shaking, and his knees were as weak as water.

What had he been thinking? That he'd dug up the last vestige of the Troubles? That he'd dig up his own melancholy along with the remains? Well, he'd dug up more than he'd realised, seemingly, and Sam took a steadying breath as he stared down at his feet. Bit off more than he could chew, more like.

There was the round shape of the skull, just showing itself above the banks of earth. There were the ribs, and a pelvis, he thought, and the long slim shape of the thigh-bone… Sam looked away, his heart beating hard. Such a shame to disturb his rest, for all that he'd not let the Shire alone in life. Not the point, not by a long chalk, and Sam found he'd automatically reached for where his sword had hung, long years though it had been since he'd last worn one, and for all that Sting was hung now quietly above the kitchen hearth. Old habits died hard, or so it seemed.

Hammy wailed a little more and then stilled, his face pressed close to Sam's shirt, and then he reached up his chubby arms and wrapped them round Sam's neck. Sam felt he'd never been more grateful for anything in his life, as he buried his nose in the sweet smell of baby's hair. For no-one deserved this, murdered as he had been, and buried in a nameless grave, only to be unearthed so carelessly, so callously. What on earth was he going to do?

And then, as always in extremity, Sam thought of Mr Frodo. Thought of his gentle smile, and his courage, and his wisdom. Thought of how horrified he might have been to find his cousin like this, such a terrible sight, for who else might it be but Mr Lotho, planted here in the roots of the chestnut tree he had himself caused to be cut down?

September was a hard month, and no mistake.

And yet. Horrified though he would have been, Mr Frodo would have done the right thing, wouldn't he? Whatever that might be. Even if it was the hard thing to do, Mr Frodo would have done it. And he wouldn't have shirked it, no matter what.

Like his leaving, all those Septembers ago. Like his knowing it was his time to go.

Sam took another deep breath of the moisture laden air, and felt it close up his throat. What was the right thing to do here? What did Mr Lotho deserve? There was a shovel by the potting shed, he knew it, he'd brought it out earlier to start turning over the soil in the carrot beds. He could fetch it now and with a few careful spadefuls then no-one would be any the wiser. Sam could go back in with Hammy, eat his lunch, and then come out and calmly finish filling in the hole. Sam and his family wouldn't have to put up with the gossip, and the speculation, wouldn't have every detail of the Troubles talked about, wouldn't have to face the horror all over again. Sam could leave Mr Lotho to his peace, to his ill-deserved rest, and things could go on as before.

Choices. Mr Frodo would say it was all about choices. That Mr Lotho chose his course, and that he made all the decisions that had led him to this silent fate under the tree roots. It wasn't Sam's fault that he was here. Mr Lotho had caused misery, and pain. The Shire wasn't going to be the same in Sam's lifetime, and that was near enough all Mr Lotho's fault. Shouldn't he lie in the bed he made for himself?

But then, didn't the Bracegirdles deserve to know the fate of their wayward son? Surely the Baggins should be allowed to bury Mr Lotho in the family plot, if they so chose? That was the right of it. And Sam sighed a little as he considered his decision.

Choices. Hard choices. That was what September was all about, to Sam's way of thinking. And the taste of change breathing through the air.

And he knew Mr Frodo would be proud of him, as ever, as he stumped back to Bag End. And he knew that digging up his memories was never going to be as easy as digging up the past.

But he didn't have to like it.


End file.
